


Day by Day

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Unity in the End [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cases gone bad, Different thoughts on different days, Early stage of a relationship, Establishing boundaries, Even with Major Character Injury I'm trying to avoid heavy angst with this one, F/F, First Date, First Day after getting together, Injured John, Injured Sherlock, Insomnia, It feels like a dream, It's all a little marvellous, M/M, Major Character Injury, Migraine, Sleeping in stupid places, Still no sex, random snapshots, stories that are only vaguely connected, this was supposed to be happy then it turned to mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots into the lives of John and Sherlock as a couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic - which is more a series of ficlets - is inspired by my own feelings after getting together with my girlfriend. I wrote the first part of it on the 5 March this year, a handful of hours after we got together. As such, it is almost a record of my real feelings transmuted into Johnlock form. Why? Because Johnlock is as good a place as any, and Sherlock is one of those things she and I have in common.

Sherlock spends the first day after he and John get together walking through London, re-learning the city where he has spent so much of his life. It is surreal, like a dream. Only two days ago he walked through these same streets with John at his side, solving a case which was nowhere near as exciting as he would have hoped. They went for curry afterwards, and not once did he get so much as an inkling about the changes that twenty-four hours would bring.

How can this be real? It certainly doesn’t feel real. It feels like the haze after waking from a memorable dream, returning to him in flashes and moments, making him grin to himself. He’s never been one for smiling in public, but John has changed that in him and now he can’t hide it. A great secret is nestled in his chest and he wants nothing more than to share it with the world around him, with the world that doesn’t yet know that John Hamish Watson is in love with him, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, a man who goes by his middle name because strange as it is it feels more natural than his first one.

Everyone can see this change that's come across him. Of course they can. Why wouldn't they be able to? It's obvious. He stood in front of the mirror this morning and catalogued the changes - a spark in his eye, a twitch of his lips, an oddly relaxed way of standing as if a great weight has been lifted from him. He is light, and happy, and how can this be real?

 


	2. Day Seven

They've been together a week, and still they haven't gone on a date. Or at least, not in the traditional sense. They shared Chinese after a case, but that hardly counts as a date.

That case has taken up most of the last week. A domestic murder disguised as a rape accident disguised as a break-in gone wrong. It's an old sort of story, one they've seen hundreds of times, yet he still finds himself excited by watching Sherlock work. The flash in his eye, the quirk of his lips, the way even his hair seems to radiate energy and brilliance. It's beautiful and breath-taking and John feels slightly guilty for getting horny over it.

Of course, they haven't done _that_. They're still defining the new boundaries of their relationship, and it simply hasn't come up. The kisses have been great, but he's not sure how Sherlock will take the question of sex.

So he leaves it aside for now, and is quite content to share Sherlock's bed with him. That, at least, they’ve established. The day after they wrap up the case, John rolls out of bed, has tea, and then rolls back in beside Sherlock who still hasn’t woken. His skin is sleep-warm and soft, lips slightly parted as he breathes. These are moments that John dreamt of when he imagined getting together with Sherlock – not sex, not elaborate dates, and certainly not the extra worry that a high-speed chase through the city brings now. Just this, the peace after the storm has passed, the quiet moments in-between.

He leans in and kisses Sherlock’s forehead, then wraps his arm around his lean form and holds him tight. And for now, this is more than enough.


	3. Day Fourteen

Their first date is to a violin performance. John has no idea who the musician is, aside from her being Russian, but Sherlock is filled with excitement to get to see the performance. He bought the tickets months ago, hoping that John would agree to accompany him, but more than prepared to ask Mrs Hudson to come should John turn it down.

He never thought he’d be going to it with John, as a _couple_.

It’s not a brilliant performance, being merely excellent, which Sherlock readily admits afterwards, pointing out the minute flaws which John hasn’t noticed until then. But those flaws are unimportant to both of them, when it’s the simple fact of being together that lights them up from the inside. There’s a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye, and a twitch in John’s lips which tells the story to anyone who happens to notice.

They’re not obvious about their relationship, because what need is there for that? They do, however, hold hands, John rubbing gentle circles over Sherlock’s skin. By the end of the night, as they stand kissing outside the Orchestra Hall, both are satisfied with how their evening has gone.

(To John’s mind, it helps that Sherlock looks incredibly dashing in a three-piece suit with a red waistcoat that sets off his curls – the touch of drama he enjoys. And Sherlock is pleased that John is so clearly pleased. They make such a well-matched pair that several passers-by smile appreciatively at them, though they are too absorbed in their own world to notice.)

As proper first dates go, John counts it as a definite best.


	4. Day Twenty-One

John’s settled back in Baker Street, in his customary chair by the fire. His leg is bandaged and propped up, and Sherlock is busying himself making tea. It’s an excuse more than anything, John knows. He’s trying not to let his tears show, though he really needn’t worry about it.

It was a simple enough case of identity fraud, nothing too extreme. A private case, this time. Or at least, it started as one until Sherlock discovered that the perpetrator was a murderer and John insisted on calling Greg. For the best really, all things considered.

_If you had killed John you would not get out of this room alive_. Sherlock snarled the words, lip curled, voice a mingle of relief and anger. The wound was nothing to worry about – he wouldn’t even have bothered with the hospital only for both Sherlock and Greg pushed him into the ambulance and there was no way out of course when he could hardly walk. The bullet only creased his thigh. He could have stitched it himself.

But Sherlock’s face, chalk white, eyes blazing, hands gentle as he assured himself that it really was only minor. He probably would have collapsed with the relief only for the anger kept him standing until they were both in the ambulance, Sherlock holding tight to John’s hand for his own reassurance more than anything.

It’s all fine now, or will be when the leg heals, which shouldn’t take too long. For a horrible moment, he’d thought Sherlock had been the one shot, until his own leg buckled and pain shot through him. The pain was a welcome relief.

Sherlock sets a cup of tea down on the arm of his chair, breaking him out of his thoughts. “How are you feeling?” His voice is soft, and eyes are bloodshot. So he _was_ crying.

“A little tired. It’s the pain medication.” He pulls Sherlock’s head down and kisses his cheek. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a scratch.”

“I know it is, I just –“

“I know. But it’s all fine.”

And the flicker of a smile that those words stir is worth the pain.

 


	5. Day Twenty-Eight

John’s fingers are gloriously talented, weaving through his hair and massaging his forehead. The gentle pressure is all that helps the pain. He’s tried any and all medications and remedies, and none of them helped much, except for the heroin and the cocaine. John would frown on them, and has whenever they get mentioned.

They were supposed to go out tonight, supposed to go to Angelo’s, then come home and share the bottle of red wine that John bought. It’s four weeks since they got together, and marking the occasion was Sherlock’s idea.

Until he fell foul of a migraine.

Death would be merciful compared to this pain. Though John is doing his best to make it easier, and it would be cruel to die on him now.

“I’m sorry, John,” he murmurs. It hurts to even speak, and he’s not sure what he’s apologising for. Ruining their date, or wishing for death?

“Sshh. It’s all right. We’ll make it up again, I promise.” John’s lips are soft on his forehead. “You just put it out of your mind for now and get some rest.” And, unspoken, though Sherlock knows it’s what he’s thinking, _I always said you need to sleep more_.

Sleep sounds anything but boring compared to this.

* * *

 

Usually, when a migraine comes on Sherlock takes to his room and hides. This time, though, he missed the warning signs, and woke to it after a nap on the couch. So John settled in beside him, Sherlock’s head pillowed on his lap, and proceeded to do what he can to make it easier, massaging Sherlock’s temples where he knows the pain is concentrated, punctuated with occasional moans and whispers from his (what are they now? Partners? Boyfriends?) lover’s lips.

John knows when Sherlock slips into a doze, and sighs as he continues running his fingers through those lustrous black curls. At least now he might get some relief.


	6. Day Thirty-Five

Sherlock has trouble sleeping the whole night through. He always has had. It was the thinking behind his "sleep is a waste of time" mantra where cases were involved, are still involved. It used to be that when he'd wake in the night he'd go for a walk through the city to clear his head, or settle in over some experiment or other in the kitchen, John having voiced his distaste for night-time violin playing.

Then Sherlock faked his death, and nothing was the same. There was little time for sleep in those two years, so when he got the opportunity he took it. He may be reckless but he's not stupid.

But when he came back, John had Mary.

Sleep became a refuge. He'd dream of when things were all right between them, before he went away, before Mary and Moriarty. Those nights, even if he woke he'd stay in bed, curled in on himself, waiting for sleep to cone again so he could pretend that everything was all right, that he wasn't hollow and helpless and falling apart.

Until he got shot and John stayed with him until he recovered and he wasn't up to doing much more than sleeping. The former refuge lost his allure when he’d almost ended up in the eternal sleep.

Now though, everything’s different. He doesn’t care if he wakes in the night, because John will be lying beside him, arms and legs intertwined with his own. He’ll just lie awake, for as long as it takes, studying this glorious man who has so changed him. And when sleep comes again, as it does and this night five weeks after they’ve gotten together is no different, he’ll dream of the future that they have before them, waiting.

And he’ll finally feel content. 


	7. Day Forty-Two

They both knew that it wasn’t going to end well. Those sorts of cases never do. Still, it cuts Sherlock deeply that they were already too late. John sees it in the slump of his shoulders when Greg calls to confirm that they’ve her body. Three days of intense casework come to this.

John makes him tea, and when he comes back out of the kitchen Sherlock has taken to their bed, curled under the covers. Tiredness taking over, as it was bound to do.

He sighs and walks into their – formerly Sherlock’s – room and sets the tea down on the cabinet, kicking off his shoes and crawling in beside his lover, wrapping his arms around his waist.

He doesn’t say anything. There is nothing for him to say or do except lie here. Sherlock isn’t asleep. John knows that, feels it in the rate of his breathing  and Sherlock’s hands move to cover John’s. It’s soothing, for both of them.

“Why are people so foolish?” Sherlock asks eventually, voice hoarse.

“They’re fallible. Stupid decisions are bound to be made.”

“She should have been cleverer than to go with him. It’s not the first time a case like this has happened. She should have known not to do that.”

“People never think that it’s going to be them, Sherlock. They might know the statistics, but they won’t apply them to themselves. I mean, I knew when I was in Afghanistan that I could get shot. That doesn’t mean that I thought I would and I made decisions that I probably shouldn’t have. Yeah it they were stupid decisions, but that didn’t matter much until I actually got shot.” He presses a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I’m sure he seemed nice enough,” he murmurs. “Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she was drunk. Maybe he got to drug. Or maybe she just trusted him. It happens.”

“I wish it didn’t.”

“I know. But it’s too late now and there’s nothing that you or anyone else can do about that.”


	8. Day Forty-Nine

John is asleep, his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock decides that he’s not going to move and disturb him. It’s been a long few days with little rest for either of them. Better to let him sleep now.

They’d been watching James Bond where John fell sleep. Sherlock presumes that he dozed off too, because now there’s some sort of black and white western on. He’d be inclined to turn off the television and go to bed, but finding the remote would involve disturbing John. So would going to bed, come to that, and Sherlock quite likes the feel of his hair against his neck.

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. It’s been seven weeks, and he still has trouble believing that this relationship is even real. How is it real? How can John feel the same way about him as he does about John, even after everything that’s happened? It feels strange, even after these weeks, to think that he and John are linked as they are. Are more than friends, have become lovers, though they haven’t done anything like that yet. It’s not that they don’t want to. If the length of time John spends in the bathroom in the morning when he thinks that Sherlock is asleep is indicative of anything it’s that he wants to.

Still. That end of things doesn’t matter too much. What Sherlock appreciates more is the knowledge that John does want to be with him in a romantic sense. Sherlock himself never thought he’d be with anyone like this, didn’t even realise quite how he felt about John until he watched him marry someone else. And how long ago that seems.

_“If you think I like this, you’re crazy!”_ The voice cuts through Sherlock’s thoughts, forcing him to open his eyes and look at the film on the television. He’d almost forgotten it was on, and the screen shows a taut-faced Marshal. Whatever that’s about. Though crazy certainly describes how Sherlock felt watching John marry Mary. (He still thinks of her as Mary, having associated the name with her from the moment they met. Her other name, the real one, seemed a disconnect.)

Not that that matters anymore now. He has John, and John has him, and that’s enough.


	9. Day Fifty-Six

It’s not the first time she’s found one or the both of them lying on the stairs. The memory of that stag night still makes her smile, in spite of everything that came after it. Poor Sherlock must have been well out of it to call her Hudders. Of course, it won’t be the last time she finds them like this either. Bless them, but those boys really do push themselves too hard.

This time, it’s both of them on the stairs, both equally asleep. She had planned to go upstairs and clean up that biohazard of a kitchen as Mycroft calls it, but she can’t get past the tangle of coats and limbs, Sherlock curled in against John. And he’s a tall man, but she never imagined he could make himself small enough to cuddle in quite so much.

They’re going to hate themselves for this in the morning when they’ve both bothered their backs. And she’ll probably regret leaving them on the stairs, but she really hates disturbing them when they’re finally getting some sleep.

John stirs, tightening one arm around Sherlock’s waist, then relaxes again. Martha Hudson smiles to herself and goes to get a blanket. One night won’t kill them.

   


	10. Day Sixty-Three

Sherlock is sleeping, and it’s a relief from his complaining. Bed rest was never going to suit him, not even with bruised ribs. He’s lucky that they didn’t end up broken, with the crowbar he took to the chest. It could be worse, John assures himself, settling onto the couch with the television on low. He’ll hear if Sherlock calls him, but there’s no need to stay in the room. And Mrs Hudson has been fussing around with tea so he may as well drink it and catch up on _Agent Carter_ , God knows when he’ll get such a chance again.

(He’d thought the lung damage would be worse, especially when Sherlock started coughing up blood as he stumbled to the ground, in too much pain to get back up, the adrenaline wearing off. A whirl of scenarios had raced through his head in the few seconds it took to kneel beside him, each worse than the last. And John shudders now at the memory, the tea stale in his mouth. Christ, he was lucky. They both were.)

The painkillers help, he knows, but still the pain must be awful if Sherlock’s whimpers every time he tries to move are anything to go by. Of course the man has a high tolerance for analgesics - all part and parcel of a history of drug use. And Sherlock can’t smoke now either – if he starts coughing it will only make the pain worse.

Bed rest. Is such a thing possible for Sherlock Holmes? They’d hardly gotten back to Baker Street when he started complaining about John’s refusal to let him play the violin. He’ll go mad long before the week of forced idleness is up.

They’ll all go mad.

John sighs, and abandons the television. He’s too tired for this, and Sherlock’s bed is warm. Not to mention he can at least ensure then that the detective doesn’t leave it.


	11. Day Ninety-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes reference to certain events discussed in an older fic of mine entitled 'Scars'. It is not necessary to read that effort, though it may enhance the experience.  
> Also, apologies for disappearing for so long. Real life has been utterly ridiculous the last month between essay deadlines and exams and a farming crisis or two. I'm back now though, for however long the peace lasts, and I can promise several new projects in the future.

The past few weeks had been interminable. It started with Sherlock bruising his ribs. After a week - though he was a long way from recovery - he took a case for Lestrade out of boredom. Simple bank robbery, should have been easy. And it would have been, if one of the bank robbers hadn't sniped Sherlock from the opposite building.

The bullet entered his chest, higher than the one which Mary put in him all that time ago. It lodged behind one of his bruised ribs, and he bled everywhere, bone fragments piercing his right lung. One surgery and two infections later and now he's finally on the mend.

For a long time, John felt sure he wouldn’t make it. At the height of Sherlock's pneumonia, his blood pressure had dipped into almost imperceptibility. And though he's passed all of that now and on his way to wellness, he's still exhausted, sleeping more than anything.

John, too, is worn out. For days when the crisis was at its worst he kept himself awake through sheer force of will, unwilling to miss a moment of sitting by Sherlock's side when each breath could be his last. He’s paying for it now with dry, scratchy eyes and stiff, aching muscles. But still he won’t leave. The man that can’t be moved,

He sighs, now, in the dark hours of the night, and lays his head down beside that of his (boyfriend? lover? partner? the light of his universe?) of his, well, Sherlock, and lightly runs a thumb over one of those crafted cheekbones, cut from marble.

"I love you," he murmurs, the stillness of the room swallowing his words. "Christ, how I love you."


	12. Day Ninety-Nine

He’s improving, no doubt about that, but he’s still so exhausted. John tells him it’s normal, and he knows that, it’s not his first recovering from a bullet wound, after all. Everything is just so _boring_. He has the nurses deduced, individual routines memorised and shifts learned. The plain white ceiling is imprinted behind his eyes, minute cracks traced. He feels sure he could sketch it out perfectly after he leaves here which is still probably two weeks away.

Two weeks. Two more weeks of lying idle in bed, punctuated only with light physical therapy. Sherlock’s had visitors – Hrs Hudson, his parents, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, even Donovan and Anderson – and John is here near-constantly. But his mind is stagnating from the lack of information they are giving him. Mrs Hudson and his mother could compete with each other over who fusses the most over him, and it would end up a draw. Mycroft is being intentionally vague and twice as infuriating. Lestrade is censoring the details of cases so he won’t haul himself out of bed. Donovan is being surprisingly warm towards him, and Anderson far too helpful. Molly is treating him normally, well almost. When pressed, she told him what his post-mortem results would have looked like if the bullet had been just slightly more centred. That was interesting, Sherlock supposes, even if she did look decidedly nauseous.

John is being John. Careful and dependable and fussing over him but not too much and there’s something different about it coming from John. He’s been murmuring sweetly, when he thinks Sherlock is asleep, telling him how much he loves him. Sherlock will tell him that the feeling is reciprocated, he _will_ , he’s just waiting for the right time is all, and clearly John is too when he hasn’t said something while Sherlock has been awake.

As Sherlock is thinking these things through, and John has gone outside to make a phone-call, the room door opens, startling Sherlock. He looks up to see a woman, sallow-skinned with long, dark hair sit in the chair next to his bed. He knows her. He knows he knows her. But the limited amount of morphine he’s on is enough to clog his brain and he can’t think from where he knows her.

“I see I don’t need to fiddle with the taps this time,” she smiles, eyes gentle, and it clicks in his mind palace.

“Janine?” His voice is surprisingly hoarse still.

“The one and only, Sherl.”

He cringes at that nickname. It was awful then and is still awful now. “I thought you were in Sussex.”

She doesn’t seem to notice his distaste and nods. “I was. Then I was in Paris and Rome and Turin. Then I heard that my favourite consulting detective had been shot so of course I had to come back home.”

“That was a month ago,” he frowns, eyes heavy again with tiredness. “What took you so long?”

She blushes violently, eyes sparkling. “That’s –“

“You’ve met someone,” he cuts across her. “A woman, at a guess, why else would you be so dubious?”

So focused is he on Janine, and so tired with the morphine, that he misses the clacking of high heels on the tiled floor. “Good to see that being near death again hasn’t affected your intellect, Mister Holmes.” Her voice is smiling, and Sherlock jumps, looking up into the face of an auburn haired woman with cutting cheekbones. Through the disguise, Sherlock can make out the familiar features of Irene Adler.

He manages a smile and Irene grins. “Long time no see, Miss Adler. When did,” he gestures between her and Janine, “this happen?”

Irene giggles and lays a hand on Janine’s shoulder. “You and John are not the only ones coming to your senses these days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though this fic is completely unrelated to my Tired of the Boys series, I couldn't resist adding that bit of Jarene at the end. Femslash ftw.


	13. Day One Hundred

Sherlock lies back in his hospital bed and smiles. Yesterday’s surprise visit from Janine and Irene Adler has really brightened his mood. The sheer audacity of smuggling Irene into the country, right under Mycroft’s nose. Fantastic!

John, of course, knows Janine came to visit. They chatted outside and reminisced for a while, but as far as he is concerned her girlfriend is a mysterious French woman named Alicia. And that’s another thing that’s amusing Sherlock. Make-up, scarves, sunglasses and hair-dye can do a lot for a person. It’s nice to see Irene using her old tricks again. She should have gone into the theatre. There was that one night in Barcelona, while he was Away, and they infiltrated an elite party in order to glean information on a man of Moriarty’s.

But no. Now is not the time to remember that. He has larger concerns.

Sherlock Holmes has never been one to pay attention to birthdays and anniversaries. Frankly, he’s never seen the point of them. John, though. These things matter to John, and this whole getting shot business has put John through far too much. Considering that they’ve been together for one hundred days, that seems like the type of milestone to celebrate.

But how to mark it? They can’t exactly go out for dinner or something else that normal couples do, at least not when he’s confined to a hospital bed. A gift, then. But what sort of gift? John doesn’t wear ties, and all of his cuffs have buttons. There’s no book that he’s been lusting after, or DVD. Sherlock does all of the cooking these days – well, when he’s not in hospital – so there’s no point in investing in new knives when John would hardly use them.

What sort of gift says “I love you, John Watson” without being utterly ridiculous?

Janine stops by to visit while he ponders the matter, and she taps him on the cheek, waking him out of his thoughts.

“So how are you today?” she asks, settling into the chair and straightening the hem of her skirt.

His eyes glance over her and he smiles, the beginnings of a solution coming to him. “I have a problem, Janine, and I think that you can help me.”

* * *

 

Janine giggles as she leaves Sherlock’s room some time later. His lungs are not what they should be and he has gone back to sleep, but despite that she must admit that he has not lost any of his cunning with this latest mishap. If anything, he seems almost sharper than ever.

It is a simple part of the plan that she must carry out now – find John and send him back to his boyfriend’s bedside. Easy. John is with Irene-as-Alicia having coffee. Sherlock will do the rest himself later.

She sights them in the hospital café and commandeers a chair which she pulls up to their table, dropping into it beside Irene. “I hope you two have had a good time,” she remarks, taking Irene’s coffee from her and knocking back a mouthful of it. “Sherlock was looking for you, John.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. John pales and sets his own cup back on the table. “Is he all right? Does he need anything?”

“Don’t panic.” Christ, she really shouldn’t have phrased it like that. “He’s all right. In fact, he was going back to sleep the last I saw of him. He probably just wants to see you.”

John visibly relaxes and picks up his cup again. “Okay.”

* * *

 

His eyes are still heavy with sleep as he pulls himself back to wakefulness. He’s not alone in the room – he recognises John’s grip on his fingers, John’s lips pressed to his cheek.

“It’s lovely to wake to you, John,” Sherlock murmurs, not opening his eyes. Not yet.

“It’s lovely to be here when you wake, Sherlock,” John murmurs in response and kisses his forehead, causing Sherlock to smile and blink his eyes open.

“My mouth isn’t that far up.” He reaches up with his free hand and guides John’s head down so that their lips touch, just briefly. “That’s better.”

“I didn’t want to excite you in your fragile state.” But John’s grinning as he says it, teasing.

“I think I can cope.”

They are quiet for a long time, smiling at each other, then Sherlock sits up, careful not to pull on his still-healing surgical wounds.  Morphine is only so much good when it’s as limited as he’s been careful to keep it.

“There’s a key in the top drawer of that cabinet,” he says, nodding to the one at his bedside. “It’s for a cottage in Sussex which belongs to Janine. As you and I have been a couple,” his cheeks burn, though he is uncertain as to how much he might be blushing, “I negotiated with her. She’s going back to Paris with Alicia, and considering my wound, she agreed that once I’m up to it we can go down there for a few weeks. The air will do me good, and there are beehives, John. Actual beehives!” At this his excitement bursts through, eyes sparkling, and John is hard-pressed not to laugh. “I mean, it would really help in my recuperation, and we could have a, well, I suppose it would be a holiday.”

John’s response is to giggle, and then laugh, and then kiss Sherlock when he looks concerned about this laughter. “It’s a wonderful idea,” he smiles, sobering up. “I look forward to our Sussex holiday.”

Sherlock sighs and settles back into his pillows, the excitement draining him of energy as it leaves. “I was hoping you would say that.” He takes John’s hand, the one that has been holding his all of this time, and brings it to his lips. “I love you, John Watson.”

And is it the morphine addling his brain, or do John’s eyes really mist over? “I know. I love you too, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS DONE. At last. Initially, I was going to add in another chapter or two, but I am a firm believer in knowing when to end a thing, and this is perhaps the best ending I could give it. Shout out to all of those who have kudos'd, commented and subscribed. You have kept me going through this. Thank you all so much!
> 
> And a reminder if you want to hear about any upcoming projects, random ideas, see fab pictures of cows, or even just chat, you can find me on Tumblr as ponderinfrustration.
> 
> Bye for now!


End file.
